They kept moving through the twisted forest, deeper and deeper still.
Nerion pressed forward, cutting down each foe that crossed his path. He wasn't just surviving anymore—he was seeking stronger prey.
His blade no longer trembled in his grip. The movements of the crawlers had become familiar—their claw patterns, their skittering rhythm. Every encounter was a lesson, and he was learning fast.
Seraphine walked just behind him, silent as ever. She didn't interfere unless necessary. Her presence was like a blade at his back—sharp, watchful, constant.
The deeper they went, the denser the air grew.
The trees had changed again—now towering over a hundred meters tall, their trunks petrified and spiraling upward like ancient sculptures. The bark flaked in dry, pale sheets, while red moss coated everything in a glowing sheen. The ground pulsed faintly beneath their feet, as if old magic still flowed through the roots. They had entered a deeper part of the forest.
Nerion felt it. The mana in the air—pressing, breathing, alive. He rubbed at his neck.
"Your body's reacting to it," Seraphine said. "It will. Especially if you're newly awakened. This pressure… it's not natural."
He glanced up at the trees. "This doesn't feel like before."
"That's because it's not," she replied. "The deeper you go, the more concentrated the mana becomes. That's how dungeons work—layers of difficulty stacked in uneven rings."
They continued on.
Seraphine brushed a hand along the bark of a twisted trunk. "We're not even past the second layer yet. Most enemies here are still basic—easy for you to handle. But they'll get tougher—faster, smarter. Some might even be awakened. You can't just swing harder. You'll have to think."
They passed beneath one of the largest trees yet. Its roots stretched across the forest floor like fossilized limbs, massive and curled inward, as if protecting something. The trunk was wide enough to house a temple, and it pulsed with slow, irregular veins of crimson mana.
The air grew colder in its shadow.
"Stay alert," Seraphine warned. "Places like this… they shift. The dungeon's always moving beneath us."
Drawn by the tree's presence, Nerion stepped onto a stretch of blackened root. The wood beneath his boot felt soft—spongy.
He paused.
Seraphine's expression tightened. "Wait—don't—"
A deep rumble shook the ground. Not an explosion. Not an impact. Just a long, low groan—like the forest had taken its first breath in centuries.
The ground didn't crack. It sank.
The roots buckled beneath Nerion's feet with a brittle snap, and the earth caved in. A hole yawned open like the mouth of some buried beast, moss and wood crumbling into the dark.
He tried to leap back—but the ground tilted too fast. The collapse pulled him down in a cascade of soil and snapping roots.
"Shit—Nerion!"
He slid into the dark, scraping past stone and tangled roots. The slope was too steep to stop. Light spun above him. He drove his sword into the side to slow the descent, using mana to anchor it, but gravity had him.
Still, he kept fighting the fall.
Above, Seraphine lunged forward—too late. Dust and ember mist curled in the space where he had stood. His form vanished into the pit's gaping mouth.
She cursed, stepping back to scan the twisted terrain around her.
The forest stretched out like a broken cathedral—bridges of root and stone suspended in eerie patterns. There were paths, barely visible: overgrown ridges, leaning pillars, maybe even a ledge winding around the pit's edge.
"I can't reach you from here!" she called, voice clear. "There's a ledge—I'll try to circle around!"
She didn't wait for a response. Her cloak snapped behind her as she bolted toward a spiraling root-stair descending the canyon wall.
Then, the light vanished.
Dust. Silence.
Nerion lay still, his chest heaving. Every bone rattled, but he was alive.
The fall hadn't killed him.
Slowly, he rose, dust and stone clinging to him. The air here was different—older, heavier. It smelled of rust and rotting stone. He turned back toward the slope—already collapsed. No way up. The dungeon had sealed itself. It wanted him here.
He muttered a curse. His shoulder ached, but nothing felt broken.
Fine.
One path forward. No other choice.
He tightened his grip on his soul weapon. Its faint glow threw eerie shadows across the cracked stone. Roots dangled from the ceiling, thick as a man's torso, dripping black sap. The tunnel ahead pulsed with mana. Not alive—but watching. A still, predatory silence.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what's waiting."
And step by step, blade in hand, he moved forward.
Nerion kept walking.
The deeper he moved, the more the light shifted. The glowing roots along the walls weren't just pulsing now—they thrummed, alive with a low, humming vibration that echoed in his bones. The path widened slowly, like the forest itself was breathing, revealing more of its rotting underbelly with every step he took.
Twisted branches dangled above like nooses. The air grew heavier. Mana clung to the walls in pale green veins, thick as sap, softly glowing.
Then he heard it—claws clicking against stone.
Two figures appeared ahead, slipping from behind a jagged column. Crawlers. Not like the ones before—these were bulkier, limbs longer, their cracked flesh darker. The glow in their eyes had shifted from ember-orange to something closer to molten gold. Their mouths stretched too wide, the corners torn back like ruptured skin forcing a grin.
They came fast.
He didn't flinch.
The first pounced—he ducked beneath it, spun, and his blade swept in a clean arc. The head flew off in a spray of thick, black ichor that hissed as it struck the glowing roots.
The second hissed, flanking him.
Nerion wasted no time.
He planted his heel, twisted his torso, and unleashed the Serpent Sword Art—a smooth, piercing thrust designed to break through bone or armor. The blade stabbed through the crawler's face and burst from the back of its skull. It twitched once, then collapsed, limbs shaking.
The mana cost was small—but he felt it.
Still, he couldn't risk his stronger techniques. Not yet.
He slid the sword free, wiped it against the crawler's hide, and exhaled slowly.
"These things are just distractions," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Something deeper is calling."
The dungeon gave no answer. Only the soft pulse of mana and the eerie roots stretching endlessly ahead.
Nerion pressed forward, each step dragging him deeper into the dungeon's unseen gut. The tunnel glowed faintly with root-bound light—like veins inside some buried beast. The further he walked, the more twisted the roots became, weaving overhead like clawed hands. The path widened again, and then—
He stepped into a huge, dome-like chamber.
His breath caught.
The air was thick—wet—with the reek of blood. Not just rot, but fresh, sharp, coppery, like iron burning in fire. It clung to his tongue. His instincts flared.
The floor ahead was strewn with corpses. Over a hundred.
Crawlers.
Larger than before—heavily built, bone-plated in parts—but every one of them was dead. Skulls crushed. Spines torn free. Limbs hacked apart. This wasn't just battle—it was butchery. A massacre.
But by what?
Nerion stepped cautiously between twitching remains. Some still leaked mana, their cores shattered or dimly pulsing like failing hearts. The walls bore claw marks—huge, three or four times the size of crawler talons. Some bodies were half-eaten—torn in brutal, precise chunks.
The stench, the bones, the silence—it all pressed on him like unseen eyes watching.
He tightened his grip.
I need to stay sharp. Whatever did this could still be nearby.
But there was no turning back. The only path forward was through the carnage.
So he walked it, heart pounding, senses sharpened.
He hadn't made it far when a low, wet growl rumbled from the far end of the chamber.
He froze.
Something shifted in the smoke—large, slow, wounded but dangerous.
It limped into sight.
A big cat. Not exactly. But feline in form. And wrong.
A Fangbeast.
The name flickered in Nerion's mind from an old bestiary his grandfather once made him memorize. Rare. Savage. Nearly extinct. Found in corrupted terrains near Duskhollow.
It was massive—easily three times a man's size, low-built, all thick muscle and striped hide shifting between soot-black and bone-white. Its fur came in patches, parts sloughing off like bark. From its back curled jagged, root-like spines that twitched like they had minds of their own. Its face was catlike, but its jaw was hinged too wide—almost reptilian. Its teeth jutted unevenly from both jaws, dripping blood and mucus.
One amber eye burned. The other was gone—torn out, socket rotting. Its body was torn by old wounds—slashes, burns, punctures. A crawler's head still stuck in its side. It should've been dead.
But it wasn't.
It locked eyes with Nerion, swaying slightly on three legs. Mana flickered weakly in its chest—broken, unstable. Like a shattered core trying to hold on.
Then it roared.
Not just noise. Power. The sound cracked stone underfoot and sent ripples through blood-soaked dirt.
Nerion's fingers clenched on his sword. He caught his breath.
This wasn't just a hunter.
It was a survivor.
A living weapon.
And now—it had found him.
It charged.
Nerion vanished in a blur of cinders.
Ashstep Mirage turned his body to smoke just as the beast's claws ripped through where he'd stood, crushing stone. His trail scattered dust and mana, a flicker of flame—then vanished in a final puff of ash.
He appeared behind it.
Too slow.
The tail came first. Not a limb—a blade. It shrieked through the air and smashed into Nerion's ribs. Pain exploded through his chest. He crashed, skidding across stone.
But he didn't stay down.
He rode the momentum, rolled into a crouch, summoned mana. His eyes locked on the beast's bleeding, limping shoulder.
He coiled low, serpent-like, ready to strike.
The blade whipped out.
Fangcoil Doctrine made elegance deadly—his wrist snapped sharp, the sword curling mid-swing. It pierced beneath armor, severing tendon.
The beast screamed—not a roar, a voice thick with old pain. Buried pain.
It lunged again, slower—but still deadly. Its fangs came inches from his head.
Nerion stepped in—not back.
A feint. His body flickered—Ashstep Mirage. The jaws clamped down on illusion.
His real self darted underneath, carving deep across its belly in a clean, slashing arc. Steam hissed. Hot blood sprayed his skin, burning on contact. It was wrong. Tainted.
Still, it fought.
They clashed. Claw versus blade. Every dodge left echoes—flickers. Every strike came curved, coiling in misdirection.
But Nerion was bleeding now. A rib cracked. A thigh slashed. His lungs burned—from poison, from effort. Vision doubled.
The beast faltered.
It gasped. It swayed.
They charged one final time.
Nerion veered left, like he passed through a curtain of fire—Ashstep surged with raw desperation. He appeared above it, upside down, falling like a blade from heaven.
His sword curled, twisting midair like a diving serpent.
He didn't stab.
He drilled it into the spine, just behind the shoulders. Bone cracked. The beast spasmed, tail whipping wild.
He twisted the hilt—then kicked hard, driving it in deep until the guard met flesh.
The beast jerked.
Then stilled.
Nerion stood atop its corpse, panting, soaked in blood not fully its own. Steam rose where toxic ichor hit his skin. His legs shook. His grip loosened.
But he stayed upright.
His blade remained in the creature's back, humming faintly with mana.
The dome was still again.
And Nerion… was alive.